Vicky blinked, her eyes unfocused. She groaned, trying to push herself up. "Debra... run."
"I'm not leaving you."
"You have to." Vicky's hand, sticky with blood, grabbed Debra's wrist. Her grip was surprisingly strong. "Listen. My pocket. The keys."
Debra frowned, reaching into Vicky's apron pocket. Her fingers closed around cold metal. A car key. An old Ford logo worn smooth on the fob.
"The truck," Vicky whispered, wincing. "Behind the old greenhouse. Under the tarp. The Protocol... is active."
Debra stared at the key. "Protocol? What are you talking about?"
"Your mother's extraction plan," Vicky wheezed. "She knew one day... the Vances would turn. Go. Now. Before they come back to frame you."
"I can't leave you bleeding on the floor!"
"I'm fine. Just a headache." Vicky pushed her. "If you stay, they win. They'll lock you in your room, or worse. Colin... he has plans. I heard them talking."
Debra looked at the key, then at the door. Then at the bloody shards in her hand.
If she stayed, she died. Maybe not physically, but the Debra who was her mother's daughter would cease to exist. She would become Marley's pet.
"I'll come back for you," Debra vowed. She leaned down and kissed Vicky's bloody cheek. "I swear on my life."
"Just go," Vicky breathed, closing her eyes.
Debra stood up. She ran back to the fireplace. She scooped up the remaining larger shards of the ruby, wrapping them in a monogrammed handkerchief she found on the table. She shoved the bundle into her bra.
She kicked off her high heels. Barefoot, she sprinted to the service door.
The hallway was empty. The music from the ballroom drifted up, a cheerful melody that mocked her. Here Comes the Bride.
She didn't take the stairs. She took the laundry chute, sliding down into the darkness of the basement, landing in a pile of dirty linens. The smell of detergent and dampness grounded her.
She navigated the basement tunnels by memory. She used to play hide-and-seek here. Now, she was hiding for her life.
She burst out of the side door near the kitchens. The night air hit her like a slap. Heavy clouds obscured the moon, and the smell of rain was thick. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
She ran through the manicured gardens, the wet grass slick under her bare feet. She reached the old greenhouse, a rotting structure of glass and wood that Marley deemed too expensive to demolish yet.
There, under a heavy canvas tarp, was the truck. A rusted, blue Ford F-150. It looked like a beast compared to the sleek limousines parked in the front drive.
Debra tore the tarp off. She jammed the key into the lock. It stuck for a second, then turned.
She climbed in. The interior smelled of dust and her mother's old vanilla car air freshener.
She turned the ignition.
Chug. Chug. Whirrr.
"Come on," Debra pleaded. "Please."
ROAR.
The engine caught, coughing black smoke but alive.
Debra threw it into gear. She didn't take the driveway. She drove straight over the flowerbeds, crushing Marley's prize-winning hydrangeas.
She aimed for the service gate. A guard-one of the old ones, a man named Henderson-stepped out of the booth, waving his arms.
"Miss Debra?" he shouted, squinting into the headlights.
Debra didn't stop. She couldn't. She slammed on the gas.
The truck hit the wooden arm of the gate. Wood splintered. Henderson jumped back just in time.
She was out.
The tires shrieked as she hit the asphalt of the main road. She watched the rearview mirror. The lights of the estate-the castle on the hill-grew smaller and smaller.
Only when the house was a speck of light did Debra let out a sob. It started in her chest and ripped its way out, a guttural sound of pure grief. She cried for her mother. She cried for Vicky. She cried for the necklace.
She drove blindly for twenty minutes, the tears blurring her vision.
Where could she go? She had no cash. No credit. No friends who weren't loyal to her father.
Then she saw the sign, flickering in pink and blue neon against the dark sky.
The Neon Moon.
It was a dive bar on the edge of the territory. A place for bikers, rogues, and people who didn't want to be found. Her father called it a "den of iniquity."
"Perfect," Debra whispered.
She pulled the truck into the gravel lot. It was filled with Harleys and muscle cars. She looked at herself in the mirror.
Mascara ran down her cheeks. Her hair was a rat's nest. Her dress was torn at the hem and stained with basement dust.
She wiped her face with the back of her hand, smearing the black makeup further. She looked crazy. Or... she looked like a girl who had partied too hard. That was a better disguise.
She reached down and ripped the lace sleeves off her dress. She messed up her hair intentionally, making it look like a style choice rather than a result of flight.
"Just for tonight," she told her reflection. "Tonight, you aren't the Alpha's daughter. You're just a girl surviving."
Inside the estate, on the balcony, Colin River-Run lowered his phone. He had watched the blue truck tear out of the gate.
He dialed a number.
"She's out," Colin said, smiling. "Heading toward town. No guards. She's all yours. Make it look like a scandal."
---
